by John Dalmas
"You're Macurdy?" Tarlok asked. "The one that killed Orthal?"
"I'm Macurdy. And yeah, I killed Orthal. Partly. Mainly he killed himself, by stupidity, and treating people like shit."
Tarlok's gaze was steady. Analytical. He had a warrior's aura, a fairly clean one. This was a man who'd take responsibility, and give loyalty where it was due.
"A couple of your people know a couple of my recruits," Tarlok said. "They tell us you killed the soldiers guarding them in Gormin Town, then cut them loose. And that you're the one who lit off the uprising there."
"I'm from Oz, me and two others. We each killed guards, but I was the ringleader. Lighting off the uprising was easy. People there were ready; they hate Gurtho as much as you do. All they needed was someone to start something; they took it from there. I'd rather they hadn't burned the town, but it's their town."
"So what do you do next?"
"Let me ask you a question. I know what the people in Gormin Town want. They want to get rid of Gurtho. But what do you want? What are you up here for?"
Several men tried to speak then; Macurdy pointed at one. "You," he said. "What are you up here for?"
"Freedom for the tribe! Our grandfathers' grandfathers were free men. Then we lost a war with the flatlanders and had to swear allegiance to the kings of Tekalos. Obey their reeves and pay their taxes."
By this time, most of the rebels had gathered around to listen.
"All right," Macurdy said, "so you want freedom from lowland kings. Just don't replace them with somebody like Orthal, or you'll be as bad off as ever. You, Wolf! Is that what the rebels want where you're from? Freedom?"
"Pretty much. We want to rule ourselves."
"Anyone got something different?"
The only answers were shouts of "No!", or "that's it!"
"Then what were you sitting around for? You ought to be training for war! Learning to fight as a unit! Learning tactics! I came up here today and people were loafing! Did I get here on a holiday or something?"
No one answered.
"The only way to get your freedom is fight for it! And it's not enough just to fight! You've got to win!" He paused. "Now fighting's what I do. Fighting and winning. And I didn't come up here to waste my time. If you want to fight, and win your freedom, I'll organize and train you. Make a fighting force out of you. Lead you if you want. Otherwise I'll take my sword and my friends and go somewhere else. Tell me now."
There were several seconds of silence, long enough for Macurdy to wonder which answer he really preferred. Then Wolf said, "I've already seen him in action. He's smart, he's not afraid of anything-and he's lucky!"
Tarlok spoke next. "Orthal turned out to be a loudmouth bully, and Bono and I figured if things didn't get better, someone would cut his throat some night soon and we'd try a different captain. Maybe Macurdy's the man."
A number of voices shouted agreement, but it wasn't general. Jesker had followed Macurdy over; he spoke next. "Slaney'd been saying we needed to do something about Orthal, that as long as Orthal ran things, nothing would happen. Fighting with fists, he was the most dangerous man around, but for thinking? Then Slaney got crosswise with Macurdy over west, and Macurdy made a fool out of him; tricked him out of his boots. I know; I was there. Then here, when Slaney had the advantage of him, sword against knife, Macurdy split his breastbone. Now we hear what he did in Gormin Town last night. If we're not smart enough to make him commander after all that, I'm going home, and to hell with the rest of you! The gods sent him to us as our last chance. If we turn them down, we're finished. We'll deserve whatever happens to us."
Macurdy stood briefly stunned at the speech, and at the voices shouting his name now. Grinning men pushed up to him to shake his hand, and when things had calmed a bit, he raised his own voice. "Tarlok! Jesker! Jeremid! Melody! Tossi! Wolf, you too! I need to talk to you over by the cook tent! We need to get things started here!"
It took awhile. There were sixty-three rebels now, with Tarlok's new recruits, Slaney's band, and the six rebels Macurdy had rescued. None had been soldiers, and in Tekalos there was no militia training. All were good bowmen-many very good-and that was about the limit of their military competence. Most had also brought spears, such as hillsmen take when hunting bear or cat or razorbacks, and could stab a man with them if it came to it. But clashing spears with trained soldiers, they'd be in deep trouble. A few had swords, passed down through the family from tribal days, but almost none were trained with them, beyond the games boys played with sticks.
If competence was a problem, so was supply. With sixty-three mouths to feed, and located back in the wild as they were, foraging would be a problem. The nearest clusters of farms had been heavily drawn on already, and the camp had been there for only about a month, but getting food from farther away presented problems of transport.
Macurdy wondered again if this was a good idea, being here, doing this. To create an army out of a few thousand scattered hillsmen looked virtually impossible. And how was it going to help him rescue Varia anyway?
On the other hand, he reminded himself, he'd been operating on impulse, on intuition, ever since his run-in with Zassfel in the House of Heroes, and he'd succeeded beyond all reason. He'd been operating on "notions," like Will had, but bigger notions, and his had worked out.
Anyway here I am. And this makes more sense, or maybe it does, than just walking into the Sisterhood and telling them I've come to take Varia home.
With Tarlok's and Jesker's advice, he selected two platoon leaders, a sergeant at arms to enforce discipline, and a commissary chief. In the future, foragers would write chits for what they took, payable when Gurtho was thrown down. He named Jeremid his chief of operations, to see that men got trained, and to schedule foraging and other work assignments. Melody would lead the actual training. Tarlok would still be the recruiter, along with Verder, who could tell firsthand stories about Macurdy, but they'd take only two men with them, instead of four or five. One of the older men, a smith himself, would travel around the district visiting smithies, to get production started on spearheads and arrowheads in quantities. Tossi and his cousins would find a suitable smithy and begin to train local smiths in the making of swords.
And Wolf would take Macurdy to visit the rebels in his district. They were a larger, considerably more effective band, and sooner or later coordination would be desirable.
When he'd worked these things out, Macurdy called a muster by shouting, reminding himself to see about getting bugles or trumpets or something. Squads were created, and assigned to platoons. Then, to inspire some enthusiasm for training, he had Jeremid and Melody give an exhibition of skilled spear fighting, first in slow motion, then at full speed, using training spears cut on the spot from saplings. It also prepared the men for taking instructions from Melody. When they were done, two of the dwarves gave an almost dizzying exhibition of swordsmanship, changing any perception of them as amusing halflings.
Macurdy had intended, when it was over, to send the squads out to cut practice spears for themselves. But before he could give the order, he saw three women watching from a little distance, and called them over. They were filthy, their clothes were torn, and their hair was matted with dirt and leaves.
"Who are you?" he asked.
It was the oldest who answered. The younger two were silent, eyes on the ground. "We're captives."
"Captives? Captured from who?"
"From our farms. From our families. A foraging party grabbed us when they came around to take food."
He realized why, but asked anyway. "What did they take you for?"
"They brought us here to hump us."
"Just the three of you? For all these men?"
The woman nodded grimly.
"And your family let them?" He knew the answer to that, too, but it loosened their tongues a little, or rather the older one's.
Their circumstances had differed, one from the other. The oldest was perhaps twenty-five, and married. Her husband had
been away. The foraging party raped her on the spot, then tied her and took her with them. The younger two were sisters, fourteen and fifteen. Home alone with their mother, they'd been carried off and raped on the way to camp.
The rebels, standing around waiting for further orders, had listened to the whole exchange. Macurdy turned to them now, face dark with anger. "Those who were on those foraging parties," he ordered, "raise your hands."
Five hands reluctantly went up. "Orthal told us to," said one man.
Macurdy turned to the older woman again. "Is that all of them?"
"Yessir."
"All on one foraging trip?"
"Yessir."
"Which of the rest humped you?"
"Most all of them, I guess. Maybe a few didn't. They humped the young ones the most, I think because they cried. There was someone at them morning, noon, and night."
"Orthal said we could," one of the younger men called.
Macurdy's eyes found him. "What's your name?" he asked. His voice was a dangerous purr; the man paled at it.
"Parl, Captain."
"Parl, step out here." The young man hesitated. "NOW!"
He stepped, and Macurdy, standing close in front of him, barked a question in his face. "If Orthal told you you could hump your grandmother, would you do it?"
Silence. The commander seemed to swell. "GOD DAMN YOU! I ASKED YOU A QUESTION! WOULD YOU DO IT?"
Parl could barely get the words out. "No sir," he whispered.
"What would you demand of men who'd stolen and raped your daughter?"
"I-I'd want them punished."
"Punished shit! You'd want them killed!"
Parl almost fainted.
Macurdy looked around for Melody, and found her, her mouth a hard line. "Lieutenant Melody, talk with these women and come up with amends and punishments for the foraging party. And what the whole company can do for them before we take these women home again. I'll decide after supper."
Melody and the oldest victim came up with castration, to be followed by staking out over ant hills, naked in the sun. The girls couldn't bring themselves even to talk about it. Macurdy, though, wouldn't go along with such draconian and terminal punishments. The older victim relented before Melody.
He announced the amends the next morning at muster, and the punishments were meted. Each of the three captives was awarded 20 silver teklota or the equivalent, at the cost of every man but the newcomers, which virtually stripped the rebels of money. Some had to borrow from newcomers to pay their share. And remarkably no one grumbled, at least where Macurdy could hear. Beyond that, two conscience-stricken youths-brothers-asked leave to marry the girls, if they'd have them. The girls didn't say yes, but they didn't refuse, either, and Macurdy gave the youths a three-week leave, should the girls and their parents accept the offer. He didn't really care whether they came back or not. The girls, he thought, might need their reassurance more than he did their military service.
As for the foraging crew who'd stolen them, their leader was to receive ten strokes of the rod from each victim, and the other four, five each. The rod being unpeeled hornbeam about half an inch thick. But when it came down to it, the younger girl struck only the leader, twice, then burst into tears, threw away the cane, and ran to hide. Her sister wouldn't touch it. The older woman, though, laid it on with vigor, as if to make up for the unwillingness of the others, and Macurdy allowed her to strike for the younger two.
The results were an ugly bloody mess. Macurdy would let them suffer a day before trying the healing techniques Arbel had taught him.
The two girls were returned to their homes the next day, Jesker and Melody leading the escort to tell the families what had happened to Orthal, who'd ordered the capture, and to the foragers who'd taken them. Macurdy didn't think the girls could bring themselves to talk about it. The escort included the two volunteer bridegrooms, who didn't come back. Melody said they'd been allowed by the parents to stay.
The older woman remained with the company. "After what happened," she told Melody and Macurdy, "my husband would never have me back. And he's prosperous; he'll soon enough have another wife to keep his bed warm and mother our son." For a moment her mouth twisted, not with grief but bitterness, then she shook it off. "My father had no sons, and I was the oldest of three daughters. I'm strong. I worked in the field until I was married, behind the plow and with scythe and ax, rake and spade, pitchfork and pry pole. I never had a doll; I played with the bow. On summer pasture I've slept in the cow shed with a sword to hand, when there were tracks of cat or bear or troll around. I'm a good enough shot, I killed a wolf once, when they threatened the cattle, and another time I sent a catamount running off with an arrow in its flank.
"These"-she gestured at the camp and its men-"took my old life away from me. You can give me a new one now, and a spear and bow, and let me stay as a rebel. Afterward I'll see, if there is an afterward. These others are no more trained for fighting than I am, and women, more than menfolk, feel the curse of Gurtho. Some have even scarred their daughter's face, be she pretty enough that Gurtho's agents might take her away as part of the tax."
With that, Macurdy lost any misgivings about leading these men.
***
After muster, he sorted out the things in Orthal's tent, stacking outside those he didn't want, for others to take. When he'd finished, he sat on a short section of log, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, his energy suddenly gone. Looking back at Washington County with greater appreciation than ever.
24: Wollerda
" ^ "
He'd have gone to bed, but lacked the energy. Felt too tired to spread his blankets-Orthal's blankets-on the pile of dry grass. Then three men came to the tent. One of them, Tarlok, peered in at him.
"Captain?" he said hesitantly.
"What is it, Tarlok?"
"There are things we want to talk to you about, but they can wait if need be."
Macurdy got slowly to his feet, remaining somewhat bent because the roof was low. "No, let's hear them now," he said, and ducked out through the opening. The other two had come into camp with Tarlok. One was an older man who'd kept apart from the others at muster, like a bystander.
"Captain, this is Terel Kithro and this is Arva Bono, old friends of mine." He put a hand on the shoulder of a man about his own age, perhaps thirty. "Bono joined the company when I did. For the last eight, ten years, he's traveled around amongst the settlements, teaching the young to read and write and figure. Knows most everyone. He's been helping me recruit."
Tarlok paused as if ordering his thoughts. "I didn't tell you the entire truth, earlier. Bono and I'd planned to murder Orthal. Last night. Orthal and Slaney and a few others had a reputation for fighting and getting in trouble. Making trouble. Then the reeve came in with his bully boys and killed some people, burned some farms, and drove off livestock. For holding back on taxes, he said. When the word got around, folks were pretty upset, and Orthal and his buddies were naturals to recruit wild or would-be wild young bucks to form up a rebel band." Tarlok shook his head. "We didn't realize what a damned troll he really was. In the long run he was a hindrance for recruiting. Bono and I brought in quite a few men that afterward slipped off and went home-didn't like the way Orthal did things. It was their stories, more than anything else, that hurt recruiting. Looked like he'd turn the whole thing into banditry."
Macurdy interrupted before Tarlok could say more. "I'm worn out, Tarlok. What are you getting at?"
Tarlok nodded. "Right. We brought Kithro back with us because people know and respect him, and because he's a friend of Pavo Wollerda, the captain of Wollerda's company. Of the eastern clans. It's supposed to be a lot bigger than ours, and better organized and trained. And we figured when we had a better leader, maybe the two bands could work together."
"Who did you figure would lead, once Orthal was dead?"
"Well, I sort of planned to, if we couldn't talk Kithro into it. But now you're here, and we're all agreed you'd do a lo
t better job."
Macurdy grunted. "Kithro, do you think this Wollerda would be interested in working with us?"
"I think so. Otherwise I wouldn't have come up with Tarlok. I'm too old for a rebel. Old and spoiled by comfort."
Kithro's aura was pretty clean. Arbel would call him a warrior, in this case an overage warrior who'd go for his goals by other means than a sword: by focus and intelligence, and maybe other people's swords. "Tell me about Wollerda," Macurdy said.
Wollerda was of a lineage of chiefs, Kithro told him, and that still meant something among the Kullvordi, which was what the hillsfolk called themselves. When Wollerda had been a small boy, the king had been having trouble with the Kullvordi, and because Wollerda's father and grandfather had both been headmen, Wollerda and his mother had been taken to the palace as hostages. Wollerda had grown up there, he and his mother living in a small room in the servants' wing. As a bright, inquisitive child whom adults tended to like, he'd learned a lot about the flatlands, its government, and the royal court. And about the rest of the world, because the palace held a royal library with two or three hundred books, and the old man who looked after it took a liking to him.
When he'd pretty much grown up, he and his mother were let go, but after a few years of farming and herding, he'd returned to the capital, Teklapori, and set up business as a traveling salesman of books and jewelry. He not only traveled all over Tekalos, but east to the Great Eastern Mountains, west to the Great Muddy, and north to the Big River, buying and selling books, and fine jewelry made by the Sisters. He'd even been north of the river, into the Marches of the ylvin empire.
"How do you know so much about him?" Macurdy asked.
"We traveled together now and then," Kithro said. "I used to go from place to place making fine boots. And when you travel together and stay in inns together, you talk a lot. He and I got pretty close. I've made boots for him and his servants-traded them for books."
Macurdy nodded thoughtfully, not as tired as he had been. When his visitors were done, they left. By then the smell of smudge fires filled the camp, mosquitoes being out in force for the first time that spring. He'd killed several on his face and neck already, and decided to try a spell Arbel had taught him-one he hadn't had a chance to use before: creating a repellent field to keep them away. Briefly, as he muttered the formula, his hands moved, weaving something unseen.